Sem título

I don’t think it’s a coincidence that she chose a tweet that was a question about her wedding and that had a comment about the Maestro in there even though she technically only answered the question and in a rather strange way if she was married to the person noted in the question.  I don’t think it’s a coincidence that the husband is implied but never named.   And I don’t think it’s a coincidence that it was her last answer.

I do like the symbolism of Eddie puking though.

She/they have been the height of hypocrisy on the privacy issue since the start, IMO.

A/N: Helloooo, friends! Long time no see! I’m so sorry it took me so long to get this chapter up to you; real life has been particularly busy lately, and I wanted to take the time to make sure I got this chapter right. I know I initially planned to wait to post this until I had 21 and 22 ready to go as well, but I’m confident enough in the setup I’ve done with this chapter to go ahead and give it to you now, and make it a double-post for chs 21 and 22! 

Previously: Ch 1, Ch 2, Ch 3, Ch 4, Ch 5, Ch 6, Ch 7, Ch 8, Ch 9, Ch 10, Ch 11, Ch 12, Ch 13, Ch 14, Ch 15, Ch 16, Ch 17, Ch 18 , Ch 19

CHAPTER TWENTY: His

Claire couldn’t feel her feet touch the ground. 

As she tore across the salted concrete, her heart ceased to have any discernible rhythm; one frenzied beat slurred into the next until it had escalated to a fever pitch, a thunderous oscillation against her breastbone. The wind was at her back, roaring between the skyscrapers and propelling her forward until she was flying, flying…

And still not fast enough. 

Of course, the one night — the one fucking night she’d set her mobile on silent, crawled under the covers, and succumbed to a Benadryl-induced sleep… 

CLAIRE ANSWER YOUR GODDAMN PHONE

There were twenty missed calls, three voicemails, and five texts — all from Gillian — when she’d gotten up to use the bathroom in the middle of the night. 

CLAIRE I AM DEAD SERIOUS ANSWER YOUR PHONE!!!!!!! It’s an actual emergency 

She hadn’t bothered with a coat; had barely managed to slip on her trainers and snatch her keys and hospital ID badge off the entry table—

FFS I don’t want to tell you this by text! Pick up!

Barreled down the apartment stairs, slammed through the door and out into the bitter cold—

OK well… apparently not gonna have a choice here. You need to get to the MICU ASAP. Room 6. We just rapid responsed Jamie.

Took off at a dead sprint toward the hospital, the night around her blurring into smears of light as she ran as hard and as fast as she could.

He’s fucking sick, Claire. Think it’s meningitis. He’s seizing on and off. They were intubating him when I did handoff. You need to get here like now. Like right fucking now.  

Claire had managed to fire off a single, typo-filled request for as many details as possible. She could feel her mobile buzzing against her hip as she ran, promising answers that she didn’t have time to stop and read until she collapsed against the elevator panel in the hospital lobby, smashing her palm against the up button over and over again.

Last vitals I saw were temp of 41, HR in the 200s, O2 sats in the 80s. 

I know they were loading him with phenobarb and going to try to get an LP, then start IV abx and steroids. 

I can call down there and ask the charge for an update, but if you’re on the way you’ll probably find out before I do

Claire’s hands were shaking so badly that autocorrect struggled to fix both fumbling words as she tapped them into her screen: I’m here.

The light above the elevator door illuminated with a soft ding, and she drummed her palms restlessly against her thighs, hissing “come on, come on, come on” under her breath as she waited for the doors to open. Every fraction of a second seemed to take hours; it was like something out of a nightmare, in which a sinister, oozing black pitch had encased her organs and turned her blood to sludge, making her movements feel heavy — impossibly, infuriatingly slow.

With Jamie just out of reach, needing her.

And she wasn’t there.

She hadn’t been there.

Thanks to all who keeps following this story! For all your lovely comments and messages in DM. <3

I’ve had so much fun writing this chapter. Xmas music was on as early as November started and inspiration hit me to write a wee bit of festivity. Hope you enjoy it!

P.S. Of course for full experience turn on your Christmas playlist or just listen to Michael Buble album ;)

Thanks to my beta @eclecticstarlightconnoisseur​ as always :)

Read on AO3.

Chapter I: The beginnings

Chapter II: Sassenach

Chapter III: Catharsis

Chapter IV: Lovestruck. Part I

Chapter V: Lovestruck. Part II

Chapter VI: Flecks of Sun

                                 Chapter VII: Mince pies & baubles

December

I used to think that I have grown out of loving Christmas time. In fact, I turned Scrooge-like and annoyed everyone around me with remarks about how this time has turned into something cynical, commercial, plastic. It wasn’t about love or family or Christianity anymore. Damn me, my Catholicism would be as fake as the myriad of Christmas advertisements. But this year something has changed. Or rather someone has changed it. 

The snowflakes were dancing around the narrow streets of Edinburgh draping the roofs in white fluffy blankets. The naked trees outlining the alleys and parks and the dull grey sky were a reminder of the seasons changing. The chill in the air made people wrap their scarfs around their necks while their coats kept them toasty warm. Rosy-cheeked and smiling, the young, old and the smallest ones were peering into the shiny, glittery shop windows. My feet froze in front of one featuring a festive woodland scene. I noticed my own reflection in the shiny glass, seeing a smile touch my lips as I gazed upon the scene. The eyes of Beauchamp who was happy. I really was. Dizzyingly, drunkenly, unbelievably happy.

The whole month has passed since that horrifying evening that made me think of the possibility of losing Jamie. 

The whole month of visits to Broch Mordha, of Jenny teaching me to cook (and failing), of Brian showing me different surroundings and telling me fascinating stories of the family Fraser (or clan as he called it).

Of me laughing until I would cry at the jokes Jamie’s godfather Murtagh made.

Of getting drunk and singing on the streets with Jamie and his childhood friends Angus and Rupert.

Of that sweet, touching feeling that made me so sentimental when Jenny and Ian’s children would call me Auntie Claire.

Of Geillis and me spending quiet cozy evenings together in my kitchen with a bottle of red.

Of Jamie and me trying to find a secure corner in Lallybroch to make love without being interrupted by his family.

Of us making plans for the summer and where we might spend our first vacation together. (me suggesting Rome, Jamie saying Amsterdam would be more interesting)

Of arguing over that for the first time and then having makeup sex that made the hairs on my skin rise and hide my eyes away from the neighbours the next day.

Of catching a cold and then giving it to one another, spending two days at home, snuggled up on the couch in the company of disgusting snotty tissues.

Of twenty-three mornings, days and nights of Jamie making me coffee, greeting the sunrise together and making love in the darkness of the night.

Of five hundred hours saying I love you.

“So, what do you need to make this home?” he asks her later. They lay in a sweaty heap in the center of his bed, no, their bed. He is full of plans and wants to discuss it. Claire, saited by multiple orgasms and the presence of the man that caused them, just wishes to sleep.

“Wot?” she opens one eye.

“Renovation. What do I need to do to make this home to you?”

“Be here. I just need you and a small lay-in.”

“You have me. Sleep love. We can talk when you wake.”

“Okay. Thanks babe.” She is asleep a minute later. He watches her for a bit. He can't get enough watching her. He never thought he would find her. Someone who could help him start to feel again. That thought has him up and walking around the small cabin. Perfect for the recluse he used to be. It will not do for Claire and the Jamie he is rediscovering.

His kitchen is the fireplace, a burner, and a dorm size fridge. A smoke house outside keeps meat the way his forefathers did but.. No. They need a full kitchen. And bath.

He has an indoor toilet but, the shower is outside. He will put in a full bath, with a claw foot tub. Deep enough, therefore for both of them. A stand alone indoor shower.. What else?

He looks to her, sleeping stretched out with nary a stitch on. Bedroom privacy. That is also essential. She likes the fireplace so the bedroom will have one. The room they are in now can stay the living room. More furniture. They will need more furniture. She may have some from her apartment she will want to use. He will ask. If not.. Oh and closets. Lasses need closets.

What has happened to Claire is finally revealed. But there’s more to it than that.

A/N: Happy Thanksgiving! I’m giving y’all this chapter to tie you over until I finish the rest of the series! (halfway through ch 18 as we speak) I’m thankful for all the love this series, and all my other work, has been given since I started content creating for the OL fandom. I’m blessed beyond measure for each and every one of you. Enjoy! Btw, this one is pretty dark.

Previously | Masterlist | AO3

Time stood still. Sounds were indistinguishable from one another. Air barely moved. It was hot and sticky and when Claire finally woke up, she felt many different things at once. 

She hurt. All over. She reached out to try and feel where exactly she was hurt, but found she was bound. Her wrists were strung high above her, the metal binding her there cutting deep into her skin. A mere millimeter of movement caused her to cry out and she could feel something warm dripping onto her face and into her mouth. It tasted like rust.

Blood?!

Despite the pain, she struggled against her restraints, a fresh wave of sickening pain washing over her like a tidal wave, keeping her grounded.

“Don’t even try to move, deary,” a cold yet somewhat familiar voice called out from nowhere. “It won’t earn you anything.”

Felt compelled to post this for reasons

Sam Heughan and Caitriona Balfe live at the same address, share the same car and share their lives as a couple. At the very least they are partners.

These photos were taken Monday 23 April 2019. They went to get coffee, TOGETHER. They returned home together.

They spent the entire Easter weekend in Glasgow, TOGETHER.

On Good Friday 20 April 2019 Sam arrived home 2 hours before Caitriona. The same address. Their home.

I shared all of this with SiS Brazil. They as always have displayed discretion and patience until I was ready to post.

Believe what you want!!

WE ARE TOGETHER, WE WORK TOGETHER… IT’S ALL GOOD

“You just try to draw on all those experiences that you have or that you’ve witnessed” —Caitriona Balfe (2017)

And where would Cait draw inspiration for a boxing movie?? Where has she witnessed this in her own life?…….let me think…..hmmmm….

“The Man. The Myth. The Legend.”

Funny how their lives seem to mirror each other.

Inspiration at its finest -

Sam introduced first, walking on stage with his best Conor McGregor strut.

Followed by Cait.